Текст книги "Napalm and Silly Putty"

Автор книги: Джордж Карлин

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Текущая страница: 13 (всего у книги 14 страниц)

? HYPERLINK “file:///E:\Documents%20and%20Settings\Dom\Desktop\1791_NapalmSillyPutty%5B1%5D\Napalm_body-contents.html” l “TOC-97” ??OLD AND STINGY ?

Here’s something that pisses me off: retired people who don’t want to pay local property taxes, because they say it’s not their grandchildren who go to the schools. Mean-spirited retirees usually from out of state. Cheap, selfish, old Bush voters. The ones I read about were in Arizona. AARP members. They take a shit the size of a peanut and think it’s an accomplishment.

And it’s not like these retirement people can’t afford the tax money. Not all old people are as dependent on Social Security checks as they’d like you to think. Some of them get all kinds of checks: Social Security, the VA, private pensions, government pensions. They also have stock dividends, bank interest, and whatever else they’ve managed to squeeze out of the system.

And still they begrudge their local property taxes simply because their own fucked-up, cross-eyed grandchildren aren’t gonna use the schools. Fuck ’em! I say pay your taxes and die like everybody else. I hope they choke on an early-bird dinner.

? HYPERLINK “file:///E:\Documents%20and%20Settings\Dom\Desktop\1791_NapalmSillyPutty%5B1%5D\Napalm_body-contents.html” l “TOC-98” ??SHORT TAKES ?

What exactly is wrong with inmates running the asylum? It seems to me they’re in an ideal position to know just what’s needed.

HOORAY FOR MOST THINGS!

When it comes to my organs, I’ve decided to donate only my prostate and testicles, with the stipulation that they go to one of those lovely feminists.

Here’s something no one ever wrote before: “Big bats down to one five, five over cross, up the thingo. Nose, baseball, hieroglyphics, hopscotch, pouch. Inevitably, two four eight, four eight, four eight, four eighth. I. I with a two, two, two. Three. Four. Five. Down here, Mother, we’re all home now. So long, Jill. Beep beep. Hungry, hungry. Are you? I couldn’t stand it. Not in my house. Up yours, too, Don. He’s packin’ them in! We’ll all try it. Fifty-fifty? Okay, but not me.” No one ever wrote that before. Not even Shakespeare. I’m proud of that.

Civilization began its downhill path the day some guy first uttered the words, “A man’s gotta do what a man’s gotta do.”

Have you ever been in the middle of a nice, pleasant dream, when you suddenly wake up and realize someone is trying to kill you? You know what I do? I go back to sleep.

They say if you live to be 100 your lucky number goes up by one.

Near as I can tell, “jack shit” and “diddly-squat” are roughly the same amount.

What do you think about some guy who hears a voice in his head that tells him to kill his entire family, and he does it? Is that the only thing these voices ever tell paranoid guys to do? Kill people? Doesn’t a voice ever say, “Go take a shit on the salad bar at Wendy’s!” Doesn’t a voice tell a guy to take out his dick on the merry-go-round? Actually, some guys do take out their dicks on the merry-go-round. But usually it’s their own idea.

In the old days white people used to put black greasepaint on their faces and perform menstrual shows. That must have been really interesting.

When I first heard the song “Don’t Worry, Be Happy,” I realized it was exactly the kind of mindless philosophy that Americans would respond to. It would make a great national motto. Right along with Me First.

Little-Known Fact: When the stock exchange closes, the guy who comes out on the balcony with that big hammer slams it on the head of the person who lost the most money that day.

America has too many fake Irish pubs. Giving your bar an Irish name doesn’t make it a pub. The word pub is earned the hard way: tons and tons of puke and thousands of shattered cheekbones.

McDonald’s breakfast for under a dollar is actually more expensive than that. You have to factor in the cost of bypass surgery.

May I make it clear that I don’t care what country the pope is in? I’m really not interested. All the pope ever does is go around to places where people make six dollars a year and tell them to have more children. Isn’t that bright? And responsible! And compassionate. Such a bright, responsible, compassionate man. If the pope wants to travel around, flaunting his wealth and encouraging poor people to have children, let him do it privately. And for God’s sake, keep it off television. The pope is not news.

No one who has ever had “Taps” played for them has been able to hear it.

Although it’s true blondes have more fun, it’s important to remember that they also have more venereal disease.

If you watch a sitcom carefully, you can see that it’s really nothing more than a series of doors opening and closing with a series of jackoffs entering and exiting.

Here’s a great idea: A roach spray that doesn’t kill the roach, but, instead, fills him with self-doubt as to whether or not he’s in the right house.

I’m sure looters don’t call it looting. They probably think of it as extreme shopping.

FUCK THE POLITICAL CENTER

America got what it deserved in Elvis Presley: a big fat, drug-addict squealer. And don’t get me wrong, there’s nothing wrong with being a drug addict. But he wasn’t even addicted to a cool drug like heroin. It was medicine. Fuckin’ doctor drugs.

One good reason for maintaining only a small circle of friends is that three out of four murders are committed by people who know the victim.

If you live on the wrong side of the tracks but get up on the right side of the bed, do those things cancel each other out? Probably not.

Professional soldiers are people who die for a living.

Here’s Some Fun: Go into a photography shop and ask the man if you can buy the pictures of the other people in the window. Say, “How much for that heavy-set couple?” I guarantee they’ll stare at you a long time. In fact, they might even back up several feet.

Whenever they say someone got hit by a “stray bullet” I wonder about the choice of words. It seems to me the bullet isn’t stray at all. It’s doing exactly what physics predicts: travelling in a straight line. What’s so stray about that?

? HYPERLINK “file:///E:\Documents%20and%20Settings\Dom\Desktop\1791_NapalmSillyPutty%5B1%5D\Napalm_body-contents.html” l “TOC-99” ??AT LEAST EAT A FUCKIN’ LIMA BEAN, WILL YA? ?

Beverly Hills has a new restaurant for bulimia victims. It’s called The Scarf and Barf. Originally, they were gonna call it The Fork and Bucket. Thank God, once again good taste prevailed in Beverly Hills.

They’re also planning a restaurant for anorexics, but again, having trouble with the name. It’s a toss-up between The Empty Plate and Lonesome Chef. I suggested Start Without Me, Guys.

Tell you the truth, I don’t feel sorry for an anorexic. Do you? Some rich cunt doesn’t wanna eat? Fuck her! Don’t eat. I give a shit. Like I’m supposed to be concerned.

“I don’t wanna eat!”

“Go fuck yourself! Why don’t you lie down in front of a railroad train after you don’t eat?”

What kind of a goddamn disease is anorexia, anyway? “I don’t wanna eat!” How do we come up with this shit? Where do we get our values?

Bulimia. There’s another all-American disease. This has gotta be the only country in the world where some people are digging in the dumpster for a peach pit while other people eat a nice meal and puke it up intentionally. Where do we get our values?

? HYPERLINK “file:///E:\Documents%20and%20Settings\Dom\Desktop\1791_NapalmSillyPutty%5B1%5D\Napalm_body-contents.html” l “TOC-100” ??FACE-TO-FACE WITH THE CLOCK ?

I remember when they tried to teach me to tell time as a little boy. What they didn’t know, of course, was that you don’t tell time; time tells you. Still they tried.

“Now, George, the big hand is on . . .”

“I don’t have a big hand. Both my hands are little.”

“Never mind. Just look at the clock.”

And I did. It was wonderful. I love the face of a clock. To me, there is great emotion attached to the face of a clock. A conventional analog clock.

Digital clocks are all right in their place, I suppose, but they lack the friendly spatial relationships that exist between the hands and the numerals on an analog clock.

There’s a psychological component: to me, the first half of any hour, as the minute hand falls from 12 to 6, passes a lot more quickly than the second half, when it has to struggle upward, fighting gravity all the way.

I’ll say this much: If I had only half an hour to live, I’d want it to be the second half. I just know it would last a little longer.

? HYPERLINK “file:///E:\Documents%20and%20Settings\Dom\Desktop\1791_NapalmSillyPutty%5B1%5D\Napalm_body-contents.html” l “TOC-101” ??GOD HAS GOTTA GO ?

I make fun of people who are religious, because I think they’re fundamentally weak. But I want you to know that on a personal level, when it comes to believing in God, I tried. I really, really tried. I tried to believe there is a God, who created us in his own image, loves us very much, and keeps a close eye on things.

I tried to believe it. But I have to tell you, the longer you live, the more you look around, the more you realize . . . something is fucked. Something is wrong. War, disease, death, destruction, hunger, filth, poverty, torture, crime, corruption, and the Ice Capades. Something is definitely wrong.

If this is the best God can do, I’m not impressed. Results like these do not belong on the résumé of a supreme being. This is the kind of stuff you’d expect from an office temp with a bad attitude. In any well-managed universe, this guy would’ve been out on his all-powerful ass a long time ago.

So, if there is a God—if there is—I think reasonable people might agree he’s at least incompetent and maybe, just maybe, he doesn’t give a shit. Which I admire in a person, and which would explain a lot of his results.

I Got the Sun in the Mornin’

So, rather than becoming just another mindless, religious robot, blindly believing that everything is in the hands of some spooky, incompetent father figure who doesn’t give a shit, I decided to look around for something else to worship. Something I could really count on. And immediately, I thought of the sun. It happened in an instant. Overnight, I became a sun worshipper.

Well, not overnight; you can’t see the sun in the dark. But first thing the next morning, I became a sun worshipper. For several reasons: First of all, I can see the sun. Unlike some other gods I could mention, I can actually see the sun. I’m big on that. If I can see something, it kind of helps the credibility.

Every day I can see the sun as it gives me everything I need: heat, light, food, flowers in the park, reflections on the lake. An occasional skin cancer, but, hey! At least there are no crucifixions. And we sun worshippers don’t go around killing other people simply because they don’t agree with us.

Sun worship is fairly simple. There’s no mystery, no miracles, no pageantry, no one asks for money, there are no songs to learn, and we don’t have a special building where we all gather once a week to compare clothing. And the best thing about the sun . . . it never tells me I’m unworthy. It doesn’t tell me I’m a bad person who needs to be saved. Hasn’t said an unkind word. Treats me fine.

Praying on My Mind

So I worship the sun. But I don’t pray to the sun. You know why? Because I wouldn’t presume on our friendship. It’s not polite. I’ve often thought people treat God rather rudely. Trillions and trillions of prayers every day, asking and pleading and begging for favors. “Do this; give me that; I need this; I want that.” And most of this praying takes place on Sunday, his day off! It’s not nice, and it’s no way to treat a friend.

But still people do pray and they pray for many different things. And that’s all right with me. I say, pray for anything you want. Pray for anything. But . . . what about the Divine Plan? Remember that? The Divine Plan? A long time ago, God came up with a Divine Plan. He gave it a lot of thought, he decided it was a good plan, and he put it into practice. And for billions and billions of years the Divine Plan has been doing just fine.

But now you come along and pray for something. Well, suppose the thing you’re praying for isn’t in God’s Divine Plan? What do you want him to do? Change his plan? Just for you? Isn’t that sort of arrogant? It’s a Divine Plan! What good is being God if every rundown schmuck with a two-dollar prayer book can come along and fuck with your plan?

And here’s another problem you might encounter. Suppose your prayers aren’t answered? What do you do then? What do you say? “Well, it’s God’s will. Thy will be done”? Fine. But if it’s God’s will, and he’s going to do what he wants anyway, why bother praying in the first place? Doesn’t it seem like a big waste of time? Couldn’t you just skip the praying part and go straight to “his will”? It’s all very confusing to me.

To Each His Own

So, to get around all this, I decided to worship the sun. But as I said, I don’t pray to the sun. You know who I pray to? Joe Pesci. Two reasons. First of all, I think he’s a pretty good actor. To me, that counts. Second, he looks like a guy who can get things done. Joe doesn’t fuck around. In fact, he came through on a couple of things that God was having trouble with. For years I asked God to do something about my noisy neighbor’s barking dog. Nothing happened. But Joe Pesci? He straightened that shit out with one visit. It’s amazing what you can accomplish with a simple piece of athletic equipment.

So, I’ve been praying to Joe for a couple of years now, and I’ve noticed something. I’ve noticed that all the prayers I used to offer to God and all the prayers I now offer to Joe Pesci are being answered at about the same 50 percent rate. Half the time I get what I want, half the time I don’t. Same as God. Fifty-fifty. Same as the four-leaf clover, the horseshoe, the wishing well, and the rabbit’s foot. Same as the mojo man, or the voodoo lady who tells you your fortune by squeezing a goat’s testicles. It’s all the same, fifty-fifty. So just pick a superstition you like, sit back, make a wish, and enjoy yourself.

Tell Me a Story, Daddy

And for those of you who look to the Bible for its moral lessons and literary qualities, I have a couple of other stories I’d like to recommend. You might want to try “The Three Little Pigs.” That’s a good one, it has a nice happy ending. Then there’s “Little Red Riding Hood,” although it does have that one X-rated part where the Big Bad Wolf actually eats the grandmother. Which I didn’t care for.

And finally, I’ve always drawn a great deal of moral comfort from Humpty Dumpty. The part I like best: “All the king’s horses and all the king’s men couldn’t put Humpty Dumpty back together again.” That’s because there is no Humpty Dumpty. And there is no God. None, not one, never was. No God. Sorry.

? HYPERLINK “file:///E:\Documents%20and%20Settings\Dom\Desktop\1791_NapalmSillyPutty%5B1%5D\Napalm_body-contents.html” l “TOC-102” ??BULLETS FOR BELIEVERS ?

I don’t worry about guns in school. You know what I’m happy about? Guns in church! This is a terrific development, isn’t it? And finally it’s here! I’m so happy. I prayed for this. Oddly enough, I actually prayed for this. And I predicted it, too.

A couple of years ago I said that pretty soon there’d be some fuckin’ yo-yo Christian with a Bible and a rifle who’d go apeshit in a church and kill six people. And the media would refer to him as a “disgruntled worshiper.” I had no idea it would be a non-Christian. That’s a really nice touch.

And my hat is off to the people of Texas for once again leading the way when it comes to the taking of human life. Texans are always in the vanguard of this important activity, and here they are again, setting a good example, showing the way. And finally they’re going after the right people: the churchgoers. Let’s face it, folks. They’re askin’ for it. They just want to be with Jesus. Give them a helping hand.

“Wanna see the Lord?” BANG! “Off you go!” BANG! “Are you a Christian?” BANG! “Say hello to Jesus!”

Give ’em a Christian helping hand. Don’t think they wouldn’t do the same for you. They don’t call themselves “Christian soldiers” for nothing.

? HYPERLINK “file:///E:\Documents%20and%20Settings\Dom\Desktop\1791_NapalmSillyPutty%5B1%5D\Napalm_body-contents.html” l “TOC-103” ??THE LATE-NIGHT NEWS ?

The Supreme Court has reversed a lower court ruling which had let stand a Circuit Court decision allowing an injunction that restrained a defendant from contesting a court order forcing him to show cause why he should not be enjoined from suing his lawyer.

A government witness who has been demanding twenty-four-hour protection today was given a roll-on deodorant.

A woman who left her two-year-old son at a day care center yesterday morning says that when she returned to pick him up in the afternoon he was completely grown. Day care officials are crediting the hot-lunch program.

Here are the results of the Blind Person’s Golf Tournament. The winner was Johnny Dowling, with 2,829 strokes, just enough to beat Larry Powell, who lost any chance he may have had when he took a 612 on the final hole, including 115 separate putts.

A priest who has performed over 300 exorcisms was eaten today by a green boogeyman.

Twenty-one patrons of a Miami bar suffered numerous gunshot wounds to their feet and ankles as two armed dwarfs ran amok in a downtown tavern. Police say the two tiny men entered the bar riding horsey-back, and things got out of hand when the one on the bottom began to get drunk. In addition to the many foot wounds, extensive damage to the baseboards and electrical outlets was also reported.

Mary Pierce, a woman who claimed she was filled with great love for everyone in the world, was killed today by a man who says he didn’t know that.

An unregistered nurse in Phoenix has been arrested for sending obscene get-well cards.

In a bizarre accident, a man who looks like Dean Martin ran over and killed a man who resembles Jerry Lewis. Police spokesman Dave Brewster, who looks like Sammy Davis Jr., said they can find no significance.

The international sword-swallowing championships were held in Sweden yesterday. The judges say the level of competition was especially fierce this year, and they will announce the winners as soon as they are able to remove them from the platform.

Hollywood film star Vicki Lick, and her husband, Mark Stain, have called it quits after a seventeen-minute honeymoon in a pew in the back of the church.

And finally, on the lighter side: The Guinness Book of World Records announced today that Harold Twirlfine of Boston has amassed the world’s largest collection of chocolate pudding. Twirlfine, a carnival organist, has over 6,000 separate servings on display in his living room. He says that on many of the older servings an almost impenetrable skin has now formed, and in some cases the pudding has pulled completely away from the side of the dish. This has caused the formation of huge crevices where Twirlfine now stores part of his award-winning collection of Raisinets.

But Twirlfine’s feat is nothing compared to the largest single mass of Jell-O in the world. That title belongs to the good citizens of Lemon Lime, Minnesota, who last year poured 200,000 boxes of Jell-O powder into the lake. Most of the locals are happy with the results; however, some people diving at the lake’s shallow end have injured their heads on large pieces of fruit cocktail.

? HYPERLINK “file:///E:\Documents%20and%20Settings\Dom\Desktop\1791_NapalmSillyPutty%5B1%5D\Napalm_body-contents.html” l “TOC-104” ??I NEVER FUCKED A 10 ?

I never fucked a “10,” but one night I fucked five 2s. And I think that ought to count. It ought to go down in my record as a positive achievement. But here’s something I’m really proud of: I never fucked a 1. Well, I never got drunk enough. You have to swallow a lot of chemicals to even talk to a 1, much less actually fuck one.

Of course, some guys will fuck anybody. We know that. There’s always one guy in every crowd who’ll go,

“Hey, guys! Look! Let’s fuck her!”

“That’s a coat rack, Bob.”

“So?”

Some guys will fuck anybody. Not me. Not anymore. Not since herpes and AIDS have been floating around. I’m playin’ it safe these days. In fact, I’m being so careful I’ve stopped jerking off. You never know where your hand has been.

But if you’re one of these guys who’s still happily bashing the candle, I strongly suggest that you practice safe-sex masturbation. Don’t take chances. If you’re going to lie in bed and pretend you’re fucking some unsuspecting female, for God’s sake use a condom. It doesn’t take much time out of your fantasy to get up and go over to the dresser and get a condom. She’s not goin’ anywhere, that’s for sure! In fact, if you handle your fantasy correctly, you can probably talk her into goin’ over and gettin’ the condom for you.

? HYPERLINK “file:///E:\Documents%20and%20Settings\Dom\Desktop\1791_NapalmSillyPutty%5B1%5D\Napalm_body-contents.html” l “TOC-105” ??SHORT TAKES ?

To spice up the Miss America contest, I think they ought to make the losers keep coming back until they win. Wouldn’t that get spooky-looking after about thirty years? How would you like to see some seventy-year-old woman in a bathing suit?

“I’d like everyone in the world to live in peace and harmony.”

“Fine. Sit down before you fall down. And pick up all those fuckin’ batons!”

The Muslims observe their sabbath on Friday, the Jews observe on Saturday, and the Christians on Sunday. By the time Monday rolls around God is completely fuckin’ worn out.

A lot of times when a package says Open Other End, I purposely open the end where it says that.

Looking back, I realize that my life has been a series of incidents where one person has said to another, “Get this asshole outta here!”

In the doggie dictionary, under “bow wow” it says, “See ‘arf arf.’”

You know what you never see? A black guy with buckteeth.

When you look at the average American you realize there’s nothing nature enjoys more than a good joke.

The future will soon be a thing of the past.

Can’t we silence these Christian athletes who thank Jesus whenever they win and never mention his name when they lose? You never hear them say, “Jesus made me drop the ball,” or, “The good Lord tripped me up behind the line of scrimmage.” According to Christian athletes, Jesus is undefeated. Meanwhile, a lot of these Holy assholes are in sixth place. Maybe it’s one of those miracles we hear so much about.

How come the Midwest is in the United States, and the Mideast is way the fuck overseas somewhere?

On Thanksgiving, most people give thanks for the things they have. Not me, I use Thanksgiving to ask for more things.

I think if a person doesn’t immediately answer a public page in an airport, the paging should get increasingly hostile each time it is repeated. Until finally they’re saying, “Goddammit, would the miserable jackoff calling himself David Klosterman please pick up the fuckin’ white courtesy phone?”

Regarding these famous boxers who make comebacks when they’re in their forties, don’t you wish one of them would get killed in the ring? Just for a goof?

Here’s a good example of practical humor, but you have to be in the right place. When a local television reporter is doing one of those on-the-street reports at the scene of a news story, usually you’ll see some onlookers in the background of the shot, waving and trying to be seen on television. Go over and stand with them but don’t wave. Just stand perfectly still and, without attracting attention, move your lips, forming the words, “I hope all you stupid fuckin’ lip-readers are watching. Why don’t you just blow me, you goofy deaf bastards.” The TV station will enjoy taking the many phone calls.

I feel sorry for bisexuals. Can you imagine wanting to fuck everybody you meet? Jesus, think of all the phone numbers you’d come home with. Might as well walk around with the white pages under your arm.

Hitler never bothered with restaurant reservations; he just dropped by. And somehow they always found him a table.

I’m glad the Peanuts comic strip is finished; I never understood its appeal. I’m looking forward now to the disappearance of Garfield and Doonesbury.

One of the more pretentious political self-descriptions is “Libertarian.” People think it puts them above the fray. It sounds fashionable and, to the uninitiated, faintly dangerous. Actually, it’s just one more bullshit political philosophy.

When a plane crashes, and a lot of people die, I always wonder what happens to their frequent flier miles.

Why don’t they have waiters in waiting rooms?

I’m glad Americans have trashed their national parks. I especially like that they can’t blame it on Jews, blacks or immigrants. It was all done by ignorant, white-slob American tourists.

When you read about all the presidents who had affairs, you feel sorry for Gerald Ford. Apparently no one wanted to fuck him. Except Betty. And she was drunk a lot.

THE FOLLOWING STATEMENT IS TRUE. THE ABOVE STATEMENT IS FALSE.

Many people think they have to lie to get out of jury duty. You don’t have to lie; tell the judge the truth. Tell him you’ll make a really good juror because you can spot guilty people just by looking at them. Explain that it has to do with how far apart their eyes are. I guarantee you’ll be out of that courtroom before you can say “justice sucks.”

You know what I like? A big fire in an apartment house.

Ecology note: In an economy measure, the number of bees in a squadron has been reduced from 35 to 20.

I often wonder if movie directors have credits at the end of their dreams?

? HYPERLINK “file:///E:\Documents%20and%20Settings\Dom\Desktop\1791_NapalmSillyPutty%5B1%5D\Napalm_body-contents.html” l “TOC-106” ??SPORTS SHOULD BE FIXED:?OVERTIME ?

Auto Racing

I’d like to improve auto racing. This is a sport that’s very big in the South; a perfect marriage of fast cars and slow minds. I think if they want to liven up these races, what they ought to do is have one guy driving in the wrong direction. Simple thing: one guy, moving against the traffic. Maybe with a deer strapped to the hood, and a muffler dragging, makin’ sparks. You could also stick three children with rickets in the backseat. Racing fans would appreciate seein’ something familiar. Make ’em feel right at home.

Here’s another thing that would increase the danger and excitement in these races: You offer an irresistibly huge sum of money—$50 million—to any driver who completes ten laps while driving in reverse. Doesn’t matter which direction he’s going, with or against the traffic; it’s his choice. Fifty million dollars! Some guy would try it. Count on it. In fact, for $50 million you might wind up with everybody in the race goin’ backward. Perfect metaphor for the South.

It would also be highly entertaining if the pit crews had to change tires right out on the track, during the race. I’d like to see them try those ten-second pit stops under some really stressful conditions. And maybe if you gave ’em longer hoses they could refuel the cars out there, too. Adds a fire hazard, heightens the danger, increases the fun. Just a thought.

And speakin’ of danger, isn’t it about time they eliminated that boring pace-car shit? They oughta start these races by havin’ a couple of Air Force F-18’s zippin’ around the track, real low. Keep them ten feet off the ground, so the locals can get a real good look. Just watchin’ them make those turns would be worth the whole trip to the track. Most of those racing fans are soldier-sniffers and patriotic halfwits anyway, so I’m sure they’d be honored to have the occasional military jet slam into the crowd and send a couple of hundred of them off to be with Jesus.

And, speaking of such possibilities, it goes without saying that the most satisfying part of auto racing is the high number of fatal accidents. So maybe we could do a few things that would increase the frequency of these accidents or, if not, at least make them a little more dangerous.

One idea I had, although it’s decidedly offbeat, would be to spray olive oil on the track about every twenty minutes. Not only would this add driving excitement, it would produce an interesting aroma as it mingled with the gasoline fumes, the stale beer, and the pervasive body odor.

Another good accident enhancer would be requiring the drivers to race single file, except for two short, 100-yard passing lanes at each end of the track. Let them jockey for position just as they’re heading into the turns. And guess what? This might be the perfect spot for the olive-oil release.

Here’s another thrill provider: line the interiors of the cars with plastic explosives rigged to go off when anything touches the exterior of the car. Anything: the wall, another car, debris from the track. Shit, you could probably make it sensitive enough so that one of those heavy clouds of corn-dog farts that come rolling out of the grandstand from time to time would set it off. And just think, the fart cloud itself would probably add several lovely colors to the pyrotechnic display of the explosion.

? HYPERLINK “file:///E:\Documents%20and%20Settings\Dom\Desktop\1791_NapalmSillyPutty%5B1%5D\Napalm_body-contents.html” l “TOC-107” ??SEVEN DEATH WISHES ?

You’re in a leather bar with 200 heavily armed, wildly drunk, ex-convict, sadomasochistic butch lesbians. You climb on the bar and say, “Which one of you sweet little cupcakes wants the privilege of being the first in line to suck me off? If you’re the lucky one, and you give me a real good blow job, I might do you a favor and throw you a quick fuck and let you cook me a nice meal. C’mon, line up, you repulsive cunts, and I’ll change your sexual orientations. I dare you to cut off my balls!”

Walking through the woods one day, you encounter a group of devil worshipers who are disemboweling a small boy. You tell them what they’re doing is cowardly, unnatural, and morally wrong, and you’re sure they would never try it on a grown-up. Especially one like yourself, who loves Jesus, and always wears his crucifix proudly. You also say that you just arrived from Australia, have no local friends or living relatives, and are planning to establish a Christian church called Fuck Lucifer. Then you order them to stay where they are, because you’re leaving to get the police.